


Nothing Here is Stolen

by HazelNMae



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Gen, Suicidal Ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 06:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20670659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelNMae/pseuds/HazelNMae
Summary: My Episode 4 response fic. Because my poor Tommy is truly struggling and I just want him to be happy.





	Nothing Here is Stolen

He replayed the words in his mind.

_“An irrational frenzy controlled by reason and self-reflection.”_

After taking a final drag from his cigarette, Tommy snuffed it out and moved from his desk to search the books adorning the walls. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, not having paid much attention as the books were coming in. He thought surely, though, that with the dozens of books in his office he’d have something to explain what the fuck Mosley had meant.

He held the book in his hands for a moment before cracking it open, letting his fingers run over the gilded lettering on the front. A Hand-Book of Mythology. 

He noted the smell of the pages as he flipped through them. It was stuffy, as if it had never been opened. And he supposed it hadn’t been–at least not since it ended up in his office at Arrow House.

_“A perfect blend of Dionysus and Apollo.”_

Tommy searched the index first for “Apollo,” given that it came near the beginning. Scanning the page, he was reminded of what he’d learned in school. 

Apollo, the God of the sun. All truth, light, and logic. Choosing what’s correct in the face of adversity. Fighting for control and order. 

The control, reason, and self-reflection. 

He took a moment to admire the illustration. Apollo stood atop a pedestal–draped in velvet with a crown of golden branches adorning his head. His face held upward, in a show of righteousness, an understanding of truth and power. His arm outstretched as if motioning toward something that wasn’t there.

He flipped wildly to the entry on Dionysus as he downed the remaining whiskey in his glass.

Dionysus, the God of wine. The man who suffers to free his followers from self-conscious fear and care. The liberator who subverts the oppressive restraints of the powerful. Wild.

The irrational frenzy.

He saw the dichotomy in the illustration as much as the words on the page. Dionysus sat atop a leopard. His staff stretched out before him in one hand, severed head atop it. A frenzied smile on his face. In his other hand a goblet, wine spilling over the side. 

Tommy looked at the empty glass in his own hand. 

As much as he’d tried to remain in control, to remain Apollonian, he’d slipped more and more into the frenzy, the Dionysian. 

The ghosts that haunted him. The laudanum he sought to encourage their appearance. 

The whiskey he now poured into his empty glass and easily took in one shot.

Was it beyond his control? Was Mosley right about him?

He moved quickly, though somewhat unsteady on his feet now that the whiskey was setting in, to the bookshelf once again. It took longer than he’d hoped, but he found the only text he could with the German name on the spine.

It was the right one.

_“Do you know the work of Frederick Nietzsche?”_

The Birth of Tragedy.

Tommy sank into the sofa, a glass of whiskey in one hand, Nietzsche’s book in the other. He scanned through it’s pages, but nothing seemed to register. Though he wasn’t sure if it was because the contents were beyond his understanding or due to his inebriated state. He chose to blame it on the latter.

Tommy was a smart man. Not a well-educated man, but smart nonetheless. He understood the gist of what Mosley had said to him. He didn’t need to read Nietzsche’s words to make sense of it.

Mosley saw him as a clash of two forces. 

Tommy began to drift into sleep, fighting to keep his eyes opened. 

In his stupor, he was once again visited by his ghosts. 

Grace, as usual, was first. Appealing to his emotions, to his sadness, to his anger. She was always first to come to him. She would hold him, sing to him, remind him of the love they shared. She would implore him to come to her. To end it. Turn the key. Open the door. Step through.

He pushed the thoughts away, shaking his head to find a balance.

A clash of two forces.

He forced himself up and moved toward the door. He stumbled, but made his way through the hall and to the parlor, falling again as he reached for a chair to steady himself. Resting his head in his hands, fighting for enough sobriety to reach the stairs to his room, he drifted again.

Next came John. Appealing to his sense of duty. Of honor. He appeared often in the first few years following his death. Constantly reminding Tommy of what he’d sacrificed. Of the fact that every move he’d made was in pursuit of something bigger. Something better. Something important. He often reminded Tommy of his promises to pursue legitimate business.

It was that thought that sent him shooting forward in the chair, forcing himself to stand once more. He pushed John away with another swig of the whiskey. His pursuit of legitimate business had only left them desperate to reclaim the money they’d lost on Wall Street.

Tommy finally pulled himself together enough to climb the stairs. He made way to his room and found the bed, not even bothering to remove so much as his shoes before he fell against the pillows. 

When he finally allowed himself to drift again, for a third and final time, it was Alfie who appeared. As always, his friend tried to appeal to Tommy’s reason, his logic, his controlled self-reflection. He reminded Tommy of why he did it. Why he pushed through, regardless of those who always tried to stand in his way. He reminded Tommy of how similar they’d been in life. Of how similar they’d be in death. 

It was always Alfie who pushed him through when the desperation felt impassable. 

Tommy finally fell into a deep sleep. 

He slept through the night, waking only when the light made its way through the curtains, falling squarely on his eyes.

He found the book, empty glass, and a small piece of paper with scratched writing on it sitting on his bedside table. His glasses had fallen onto the floor, so leaned down, with a groan, to retrieve them. After finding his bearings he picked up the paper.

On it were scribbled, in his own drunken handwriting, the words he’d needed to remember. The words Alfie had spoken. 

“We simply find things before they are lost.“

With much effort, Tommy forced himself out of bed, cleaned himself up, and dressed for the day ahead.

Placing the paper in his breast pocket as a reminder, he made his way to work. 

Alfie’s words had saved him that night and he’d let them rest against his heart for when he needed them next.


End file.
